17 September 2012
I'll always remember those afternoons spent stranded on the veranda, watching as rain poured endlessly from above. The stone beneath my feet was always cool, always rough, like crystals between my toes. The large leafed trees around me, would start their rhythmic drum, as their leaves caught every raindrop. All creatures would hide away, so only the drumming could be heard. And there was always that distinct scent, of the soil soaking up the droplets that fall quickly to earth from darkening clouds. An earthy smell - the scent of nature itself.
It was difficult to see even my auntie's house from where I sat, sheltered from the raging storm. Her house was only a few dozen metres away, but the misty veil the rain created, distorted everything around me. Only colours could break through. Those fuzzy shapes of trees, houses, cars, soaked beneath the skies.
Sometimes when the rain persisted, we'd all brave the storm. And us cousins - young and free - would run through the empty street, shrieking and laughing as we were drenched in warm, tropical showers. We didn't care then; youth never cared.
If the storm wasn't severe, our parents would sit and watch, gossiping beneath the shelter of their verandas, using the rain as an excuse to stop cleaning, stop cooking, stop working. They sat and watched and sat and laughed, drinking tea as thunder rumbled.
The kids would chase each other, kicking water up from puddles, running beneath the mango tree for a much needed break. The games we played were glorious, as fun as anything could be. Getting lost in the forest of water, as though we were trapped beneath an ocean's wave. We had entered a different world.
I can remember the rings of laughter, that echoed from all directions. The rain made it impossible to tell who was who, and who was where. Excitement had pulsed through our veins, as we stalked each other in the rain. We'd run circles through the neighbourhood, our clothes clinging to us, our wet hair flattened on our scalps. We didn't care; youth never cared. We could go on for an hour, maybe more, for as long as the rain would fall.
Only when the downpour turned into a drizzle would we discover where we were, realise how far we'd ran, and finally go back home. When the rains stopped, the race home started, and we'd sprint, water splashing from our feet, arms flaying wildly like birds in flight. For we knew that soon, the winds would come to blow away the lingering dew and chill us to our bones. The idea of the warm living room, a stove lit at the centre soon warmed our very hearts, as goosebumps start to surface. And we run, homebound.
Sure enough, when we get home, we are welcomed with furry towels, a hot bath already full and a change of clothes upon our beds. Our parents had gone back to work as soon as they heard the evening bird singing, and had started to prepare our dinner. We take off our drenched clothing, stained dark by water, twice as heavy as before. And into our baths we'd slide.
Dinner would follow, hot and steaming soup to avoid the dreaded cold that we'd all tempted earlier on. Finally we'd feel warm again, full and tiring out but still laughing from the day's adventure. And the stories they would come, us cousins chattering all together, our parents nodding softly as we giggled at the one who slipped in a puddle, or the one who climbed the tree. And fell. And so our memories were preserved.
One by one we'd leave the table, and back to the veranda we would go and sit in a large circle, as the evening winds howled on. Bats would screech from the tamarind tree, and an owl would respond from a distance.
My mother would light a kerosene lamp, and turn all the lights off from within the house. Then we'd all sit as a family, as darkness enveloped the neighbourhood and tell stories of past legends, perhaps a ghost story or two. I remember how us younger ones, would shiver at the thought of a spirit roaming at nighttime. Floating from door to door. We'd huddle up against our parents, sat on their cozy laps as they took over the story telling, and to gossip they turned once more.
Soon, way after we'd seen the setting sun, and the fire flies start to appear, us children would doze off quietly, not knowing how the night would end. Our parents would carry us to our beds, my cousins would be carried to their homes. Our parents would say their soft goodnights, whispering in our ears. And us children in our slumber, would dream about our day. We'd dream about the water that fell from far above, we'd dream about the thunder, the water falling on our skins. But always we would dream, about the rain games that we played.
The Rain Game • Opuss № I